To Bend and Not Break
by scarlet note
Summary: ...She leans back into the crook of his arm and his eyes slide over her stubborn mouth and her bright, clear eyes. She reminds him of an angel fallen from grace; hair black as sin and eyes the color of Eden. A dangerous beauty...
1. Chapter 1

Sway strides through the quiet streets still fogged with morning. She jingles the pouch in her pocket, liking the cool weight of it in her hand. She knows that taking the fancier jewelry was risky, but she couldn't resist its seductive glow in the fading moonlight. She hadn't breathed a sigh of relief until she been safe in street, looking back over her shoulder at the sleeping house. She's always loved the heady feeling that comes along with taking a gamble with her fortune. At least a life of thievery is never boring.

She scuffs her thin shoes carelessly against the rough cobblestones and inhales deeply. She can smell baking bread and scones over the usual scents of tobacco smoke, cart horses, and rusty metal. A grimy young boy on the street corner sits on a stack of papers, hugging his threadbare jacket around himself and reading over one of his copies. She can see his lips move silently as he reads, his small brow furrowed in concentration. In a minute he'll be belting out the most promising headlines.

Sway slows as she passes a darker building, feeling the pull of the old memories she keeps hidden behind her heart. A chipped sign hangs above it, creaking quietly in the breeze: The Black Rose, the most popular house of ill repute in Manhattan. The last few customers are stumbling out, bringing the stale scent of cheap booze with them. The sight brings back Belle's gentle hands and faded blue eyes, Scarlet's imperious manner and inability to regret. The way Grace used to tell her stories when she wasn't working. And her mother.

She looks away, steadying herself against the rough brick wall. A crisp breeze lifts the hair that she lets fall around her shoulders, black as the night she prefers. The sharp air of early dawn stings her throat, and she forces herself to walk on. There's no point in remembering that which can never be regained. She's promised herself to never go back.

She comes to the door of the Thieves Palace just as morning workers begin to crowd the streets. Someone answers her urgent knock, and she enters wordlessly. Light-Fingers is sitting at a table, scratching something in the wood with the tip of her knife. She turns her gray eyes on Sway and smiles.

"How's it rollin'?" She asks casually.

"Don't pull that act on me, I know you're dyin' ta see my swag," Sway responds lightly. She grins and drops onto the bench. The truth is that she wants the more experienced girl to see how far she's come. Light-Fingers was one of the girls who took her in, taught her everything.

* * *

A young man stacks firewood behind one of the upper-class houses, glad now for the shadow it casts upon him. His muscles bunch under his rough shirt as he splits another log, tosses it on the pile. It's been a hot, hard day. He was selling papers until mid-afternoon, leaving him just enough time to get through with this job. He resists the urge to sling the last log haphazardly on the pile, arranging it carefully instead. He owes Molly that much fr giving him the job, and he can't have her employers angry with her for hiring a lazy worker. Besides, these things pay well enough.

Finished. He slumps down on the ground against the cool wall of the house, tugging the brim of his cap lower over his dark, curly hair. He closes his eyes and tilts his head back. Just for a moment . . .

"Mush, what are ya still doin' here? It's been dark an hour!" Molly's low voice startles him awake. The stars flicker dimly in the black sky above him, and he curses under his breath. He leaps to his feet.

"I'm sorry, Molly, I just closed my eyes for a minute. I gotta go . . ." He makes to push past her, but she grabs hold of his arm.

"There's no way you'll be gettin' back to the Lodgehouse before it closes up for the night." She chews her lip uncertainly, and her kind blue eyes crinkle with worry at the edges. "Look, stay in th' old East wing tonight."

"I can't, it's no good." His voice is resigned. "It's not like I ain't slept on the streets before."

"Mush, no one ever goes up there unless they're looking for somethin' they've stored away. It's too close to the servants for the sir and missus." A wry smile twists her mouth, but it's the truth. "Just be out before they wake, alright?"

Mush nods. "Thanks, Molly. It wont happen again." She smiles and presses his day's earnings into his hand before retiring to her own bed in the servant's quarters.


	2. Chapter 2

The wind sighs through the empty streets of Manhattan, teasing a lock of hair across Sway's face. She pushes it back under her cap distractedly, her eyes scanning the nearby alleys. Satisfied that everyone with any sense is in their beds for the night, she slips free of the dark alcove. She stares up at the forbidding house in front of her, dark and silent. Her target. The shadows cling lovingly to its curves and angles; all the better for her purpose.

She smiles grimly, sure that nothing can go wrong tonight. She's crept upstairs to rob a wealthy family more times than she can remember. Going dancing is her specialty. She thinks of Emma and how badly the little girl needs this job to go well. Fresh determination surges through her.

She creeps toward the lonely oak standing sentry at the side of the house. Any sensible man would have realized that it made for easy access and cut it down years ago, but the upper class have never been sensible. The Donovan's are no different. Bracing her foot against the trunk, Sway hauls herself up until she straddles the lowest branch. She clambers upwards, her silhouette blending with the oak's in the darkness. She shimmies along a rough bough until she reaches the attic window. She has to be quick; the night will hide only so much from any late-night passerbys.

She slides her dagger from her belt, running her fingers over the notch in the hilt for luck. The slender branch sways under her weight. She slips the blade into the divide between the window halves, lifting it upward in one practiced motion. The latch clicks as it opens, loud in the oppressive silence. The window swings inward at her push, stiff hinges creaking in protest. Sway freezes, one hand on the window sill. Since the family sleeps on the first floor and at the other end of the house, they should still be wrapped within dreams and unaware of her intrusion. Still, it never hurts to be cautious when one plays the dangerous game.

After a moment's silence, she eases through the gap in the window and pulls it almost shut behind her. She breathes deeply, balancing on the balls of her feet. First things first: where will she find the swag? Her eyes light upon an old, dusty jewelry box. _Perfect. Say goodbye to Grandmother's pearls_, she thinks. Her heart beats faster. She yanks out a drawer. After a brief search, she withdraws a few choice pieces and tucks them into her undershirt, making a mental note to sew a pocket onto her outfit. The floorboard creaks behind her a second before a man's arm clamps over her chest and cold steel pricks her throat.

"Don't move." His breath is warm on her neck. _Like hell I wont_, she thinks. _Shadow taught me better than that the first time she took me out on a job_. She grasps the hand holding the knife to her throat and turns her head away from the tip to gain leeway. Taking advantage of his surprise, she yanks his hand downward, driving her elbow into his stomach and pulling the knife away. In the moment that his grip slackens, she twists free.

Adrenaline surges through her. The window is her only escape. She takes only two steps before the man tackles her, knocking her to the floor. She lands at an awkward angle, her right arm twisted under her. The shadowy figure holds her pinned beneath his weight, and she bites her lip as pain lances through her shoulder. Her cap has slipped off in the tussle, and her hair is tossed about her shoulders.

Instinctively she grabs for her knife with her free hand. He knocks her arm to the ground before she can do more than brush the cool metal with her fingertips. Trapped! Panic roars in her ears despite her efforts to stay in control. Her breathing comes hard and fast. She struggles to focus, to concentrate. Never show fear.

She stares levelly at the man who holds her at such a disadvantage, waiting for him to wake the household. He draws his breath jerkily, considering, drawing out the tension. Her body is tight with nerves beneath his. The shout never comes. His eyes skim over her, taking in her flushed cheeks and the way that her shirt has slipped off one shoulder. Puzzled, she studies her attacker in the pale glow of the moon. She can barely make out chocolate eyes, a square jaw, and tousled brown curls. His bare chest presses against her, hard and firm. Her mind races. Who is he? Why is he in the attic? All her plans are shattered. He breaks the silence, his voice harsh in the quiet stillness.

"Stealin', is it? Girl like you shoulda known better than to try somethin' like this. Guess it just ain't your night." He smiles patronizingly as he says it, but the humor doesn't reach his eyes.

"I'd rather ya turn me in than mock me!" Anger burns hot in her chest. It has been months since she has even come close to being caught, and the humiliation is worse than anything.

"Who said I was turnin' ya in?" he asks coolly. His fingers slide under the collar of her shirt, grazing lightly over her skin. Fear twists her stomach. He can't possibly . . . Her heart thuds in her ears as his fingers dip under the edge of her shirt. She opens her mouth to protest, but the words choke in her throat.

"Relax, doll," he drawls, "I'm just relievin' ya of the stolen goods." He withdraws the clunky old jewelry and pockets it, smirking.

"What, you taking second-hand swag now?" she says breathlessly, fighting to regain her composure. She's groping for any vestige of humor, desperate to convince herself that her predicament isn't deadly serious. Something tells her that he isn't buying it.

"Give me one good reason I shouldn't hand ya to the bulls. " His voice is hard."'Cause then you'd be a scab, wouldn't ya? What are you anyway, the guardian angel of the Donovans? I need that jewelry."

"Why, so ya can buy yourself a pretty bauble to catch some poor fool's eye? Is that what ya need it so bad for? Or maybe you were just bored." She knows he's baiting her, but she can't resist. Her quick temper has always been a fault of hers.

"Don't judge me." Her voice breaks only a little. "You've no right." He is amused, and it only makes her angrier. She struggles to free herself. "Let me up, damn it!"

"Promise me you won't steal anything from this house again and I might let you go." She clenches her jaw, thinking fast. She can't come back empty handed, but there's no other way out. She caves.

"Alright, lemme up." She sucks in a much-needed breath of air as he shifts himself off of her, wincing as she moves her cramped shoulder. She stands and shakes the dust from her clothes. She snatches her cap up off the floor and jams it in the waistband of her worn trousers. Her cover's blown anyway. He watches her carefully. "What, don't trust me?" she says with a tinge of bitterness. "I gave ya my word."

"What good's the word of a thief?" he retorts. Vague contempt lurks in his eyes.

"More good than you know," she replies sullenly, yanking her shirt straight. It's only half true. Between thieves, a vow is sacred. Bring other people into the deal, and it becomes negotiable. Her eyes flicker over the room, summing up her options.

A small pouch catches her eye, lying on a shabby table with a few other objects. Probably belonging to the man himself, not necessarily the house. And if they don't, who can blame her for an honest mistake? The darkness hides her sly half-smile.

She looks up to see him leaning against the wall, deceptively relaxed. "Most people would be grateful, ya know," he says. Time to put her plan into action. Teach the guy not to play with fire. She flicks her hair and pouts prettily.

"You're right," she sighs, feigning resignation. "I ought to thank you . . . what did ya say your name was?"

"I didn't," he replies tersely. She raises an eyebrow at him, waiting for him to give in. He does. "Call me Mush."

"Mush." She rolls the strange name between her lips, swaying her hips languorously as she approaches him. Her dark, glittering eyes are full of secrets, holding his gaze. She deftly snags the pouch as she walks by. He notices only the way the thin cotton of her clothing pulls over her curves. She's had practice at this type of subtle manipulation before. She pushes past him and hitches her long legs over the window sill. Pausing half way out the window, she turns back and smiles.

"Thanks again, honey," she says in a throaty whisper, winking as she jingles his coin purse in her hand. Dark anger washes over him, and she swings out onto a branch of the old oak as he grabs for her. She drops to the ground, cat-like in her grace. She's off and running as soon as her feet touch the dirt.


	3. Chapter 3

Mush curses, fury dancing in eyes. His whole weeks profit! He's partway out the window before he realizes that he has no chance of catching her. She'll be long gone by the time he gets to the end of the nearest alley. He opens his mouth to yell for the bulls, but immediately thinks better of it. He can't reconcile sending anyone to the Refuge, not even a thief.

Turning away, he slams his fist into the wall violently. He paces back to lean on the window sill, his grip hard on the cool wood. His good deed will cost him a couple of nights on the street until he can afford a room at the Lodgehouse again. If Wisel will spot him a few papes, that is . . .

He shoves the window shut and settles back onto the bed, waiting for his anger to fade. He folds his arms behind his head and shifts restlessly, one leg bent. Once Sarah no longer needs him to help out with chores at t no longer needs him, he'll start looking for the girl. Until then, he'll have to ask the rest of the Manhattan newsies to keep a sharp eye out for her.

* * *

Sway slows to a walk, savoring her victory. She's warmed by dark satisfaction. Her feet follow a familiar route, avoiding the hazy orange glow of the street lamps and skimming the shadows. The stolen coin purse is a comforting weight in her palm. After a few minutes walking, she reaches the Thieves Quarter. The usual smells of cigar smoke, heady alcohol, and cheap perfume reassure her. She heads straight for a nondescript, unmarked brownstone, known to her friends as the Rogues Palace. She raps confidently on the door, and a few more chips of paint flutter to the ground. 

"It's Sway, let me in." Her voice is clear and lonely in the stillness. A brunette with a cocky smile opens the door. "Whatdya hear, Sway! Glad to see me?"

"Spin!" Sway cries joyfully. A smile breaks out on her face as she embraces her friend. "Since when have you been back?"

"I got outta the Refuge late this afternoon. Boy, was I was glad to see this old joint again!" Despite her uncommon expertise at thievery, Spin has spent time in the Refuge more than once. Her sweet smile and darling face cover a reckless spirit; Sway can do nothing but watch her keep pushing the limits, always willing to risk her life to pull off a bigger trick.

"Yeah, I almost landed myself a bunk there tonight. Tell ya about it in the morning, okay?" Sway says. She enters the Palace, relishing the warm glow of candlelight that greets her. She walks among the few occupants, seeking out Jitney and Emma until she finds them next to the brazier. Emma looks even worse than she did when Sway left. The fire casts a flickering glow over her pale skin and over-bright eyes.

"How's she holdin' up?" Sway feel the need to ask, however absurdly obvious it is. Jitney's eyes are old beyond her years and filled by an unspeakable sadness. Sway knows it kills her to see her little sister wasting away with fever.

"She's worse every day. Coughs so hard I think she's gonna just fall apart. I don't know how long I can stand it." She brushes a stand of golden hair back from Emma's face and kisses her forehead tenderly. Sway holds out her night's pickings to her.

"This should be more than enough to pay for the doctor, Jitney. Take it." Jitney's face lights up, hope sparking within her.

"You sure?" The other girl nods, smiling gently. "Lord, Sway, you're a lifesaver. How can I ever"

"No need. Just take her to the doctor tomorrow and get some rest, got it?" After assuring her that Emma will soon be bright and full of energy once more, Sway trudges up the stairs. She eases open the door to her room, careful not to wake the others. Though it's only slightly larger than the bed it contains, she knows how lucky she is to have one of the few private rooms.

She collapses onto her bed, looking suddenly frail against the tattered blue blanket. Despite her fatigue, sleep comes reluctantly. The face of the man dances before her eyes. What was his name? Mush. His words echo in her mind over and over. _What good's the word of a thief? _

Sway turns onto her side, punching her thin pillow into a better shape. Finally giving in to temptation, she yanks a small, bright flask from under her mattress and takes a swig. _Just to relax, that's all. It's been a rough night_. She welcomes the slow burn of the whiskey as it settles into a warm glow in her stomach. The world blurs slightly, making it seem softer. Sway slides slowly into unconsciousness.


	4. Chapter 4

The door swings opens and a man steps inside. He is youngish, in his 20's she guesses, but his eyes are hardened by many years of getting his every want. It is not that he is cold or cruel, merely disenchanted. She tosses her hair back and smiles seductively. If her mother could do it, then she can do it. He doesn't ask for her name, and she doesn't offer it. Instead he comes close to her, admiring her body in the silk dress cut to emphasize her young charms.

She whispers some throaty nonsense meant to please him, not even listening to herself. He smiles and kisses her hard. It is a kiss of possession. She forces herself to stay relaxed, to maintain her come-hither manner as his hand slides underneath her skirts. Her dress rustles sullenly as it slips to the floor. She feels numb, as though she is another person watching herself sink onto the bed as is expected, watching him lean over her, touching and kissing and pushing. He mistakes the fear in her wide eyes for excitement.

"Please, gently," she whispers. He doesn't hear, or doesn't care. She bites her lip as the sharp pain of lost virginity flares inside of her, turning her cry of pain into a sigh of passion. Her first lesson in faking it.

Later he lies back on the soft bed, his desire sated. Thoughts run through her mind wildly. All she can think of is what she has lost tonight. She is just another object, just another petty pleasure to be used and discarded. When he leaves, she sits up and smiles coyly, clutching the bed sheets to her chest. She has a duty. She accepted it when it came to her and now it must be fulfilled. "Come back soon, darling," she says. He makes some reply - she doesn't care to hear it - and shuts the door behind him.

She hooks her legs over the edge of the bed, swaying only a little when she stands. She yanks her dress back on resolutely. She can do this. She can bear it. One glance at the sheets stained with blood is enough to make her crumble. She slumps against the wall, sliding down it to sit on the floor, and cries for her lost innocence.

Sway awakes gasping for air, her eyes wide. She presses her hands to her temples, trying to force back the memory of her time at the Black Rose. The nightmare comes occasionally; she should be able to deal with it by now.

Sway gropes desperately for her whiskey bottle, her escape. Her knuckles are white where she grips the bottle. She takes a drag from it, then tosses it among her rumpled bed sheets. The fiery liquid stifles her pain. She walks to the window and eases it open with hands that shake just slightly. It creaks faintly in protest. She slips through the window like a ghost and fades into the silver fog. The drifting pearly mist softens the city. The moonlight glows in the air, transforming dirt and ash to alluring shadow.

Sway strolls through the desolate, shrouded streets, heedless of the damp that creeps into her clothes. It is unbelievably lonely. The city appears beautiful in a queer, cold way, with its dirt and refuse smoothed over and hidden from sight yet always there. It's times like this that Sway feels an affinity for Manhattan; other times she would like nothing more than to get away.


	5. Chapter 5

Sway shoves her way through the crowded market, ignoring the damp heat and the acrid smell of sweat. She spots a particularly inattentive man haggling over the price of a trinket. Rich, by the looks of it. She sidles up to him, keeping her eyes downcast, waiting for the opportune moment.

Unable to resist the seller's wares, she strokes a polished figurine of a rearing stallion reverently before turning to business. She slips her thumb into her tiny knife-ring. With one neat flick, she parts the leather thong of the man's belt-pouch, grabbing it as falls free. She melts back into the throng with no one the wiser.

Later she pauses to count her winnings. The man must have been richer than she thought; this trick will keep her in business for the rest of the week. She heads for the statue in the center of the Square, slipping an apple off of a stack on her way. Emma waits where Sway left her, sitting on the statue of old Horace Greely and drumming her heels absently. Her face lights up as she sees Sway.

Emma's blonde baby-curls are shining once more and her eyes are alive with the simple joy found only in a child. Only a week since Jitney took her to the doctor and her improvement is amazing. Emma runs off to play with a young girl her own age after Sway gives her approval. Sway leans against the wall contentedly, glad that she'd been able to take the girl with her today. Jitney badly needed a few hours of rest, and Emma likes nothing better than to visit Central Park.

* * *

"Oy, Mush!" Boots's voice rings out across the park. "You seen that girl over there?" He asks, nodding in Sway's direction. Sighing, Mush glances over at the girl that's lingering at the edge of the park. Boot's has "found his thief" so many times in the past few days that he almost wishes he could take back his request for help. He rakes his eyes over the girl briefly, ready to dismiss her, but something about her catches at his memory. Her smudged white shirt and torn, green trousers drape over her slender figure, and her soft black curls are pulled back from her face with a tie. "She matches that description pretty decent, wouldn't ya say?" Boots continues. Mush frowns as his memory clicks into place. It's her alright.

"Thanks, Boots, I owe ya one." Slapping his last couple of papers on the ground, he strides towards her determinedly.

* * *

Sway pushes a stray lock of hair out of her eyes and takes a bite of her apple. The tart juice tastes like a slice of heaven. She can't remember the last time she had an apple.

"I believe ya have somethin' of mine." She looks up, startled. A tall youth stands before her, maybe 19 years old. His cool voice and unreadable eyes don't fool her; his body language screams his anger. A small curl of fear twists inside of her as she recognizes him, but she comes to her senses quickly. What can he possibly do in Central Park? She smiles winningly, feigning innocence.

"What, this apple? No, sorry, couldn't possibly be yours . . ." She's bluffing, stalling for time.

"I want my money back." His eyes are dangerous in the golden sunlight, swirling with resentment. She smiles, her mouth twisting sardonically.

"Well, you can't always get what you want, Mush," she says sweetly, sarcasm heavy underneath her words. What a child. She turns to go, eager to be away from him. He grabs her arm roughly. He spins her around to face him with easy strength, backing her against the wall when she tries to yank herself free. He's too close, invading her space. Suddenly, disturbingly, she realizes how handsome he is.

"Leave me alone." Her eyes are dark with emotion, startlingly green. He's thrown her off balance, stolen her casual control. She shifts nervously, lowering her eyes. "I spent it." He stares, disgusted.

"You _spent_ it." His grip tightens. "On what, apples?"

"No, actually, I stole that." Her words are absurdly light an carefree in the serious moment.

"Ya admit that you're nothing more than a thief," he says. Her brashness surprises him.

"With pleasure," she retorts with a small curtsy. Now it is she who mocks him and his idealism. "You seem angry."

"I spent three nights on the street because of ya." He glowers.

"Then you shouldn't have interrupted me in the first place. I was doing my job quite decently before you jumped me," she says.

"An' who do ya think would have been blamed the next time one of the Donovan girls opened up the jewelry box and found it lacking? The head maid of the house is a friend of mine." She looks away, her eyes hardening. She hates herself for the shame that creeps through her.

"So that makes you righteous, does it? I had my own reasons." She shoves him back with quick irritation. "Let go of me." He obliges reluctantly, stepping back from her. She refuses to rub at the dark handprints on her arms.

"Ya had reasons, huh?" Mush is skeptical, his voice laden with scorn. For some reason Sway feels a need to justify herself.

"See that little girl over there?" she says, pointing. He can't tell if she's angry or defensive. Both, most likely. "Her name's Emma. She needed a doctor real bad, and her sister didn't have the money for one. Nobody else was going to give it to her." Her laugh is forced and bitter. "In case ya hadn't noticed, the people around here ain't exactly a bunch of bleeding hearts." She walks away from him, casting a burning glance over her shoulder. "I did what I had to do."

Mush gazes after her, squinting against the bright sunlight. He suppresses the impulse to follow her with difficulty. She pauses by a young boy, maybe four years old. He slouches against a statue, his bare feet tucked underneath him. His clothes are dirty and threadbare. Sway tosses her apple to him, and the boy looks as though he's never seen anything more precious.

Sway thrusts her hands in her pockets jerkily, calling out to Emma. The September sunshine casts a golden nimbus around her defiant form, as though she's been blessed and doesn't know it yet. An unexpected admiration seeps through him. He drags his eyes away from her, sighing as he realizes that someone has absconded with his last papers.

The sleepy afternoon drifts on, riddled with the shouts of peddlers and the clatter of carriages.


	6. Chapter 6

Sway strolls down Main Street, satisfied with her latest trick. She's just purloined a few silk handkerchiefs from lovely house on the corner. They'll fetch a pretty penny once she removes the monogrammed initials. She fingers them lovingly, delighted by their creamy textures.

She passes by the Diner. Life and warmth spill out of the open door. The people inside are singing a bawdy song, most of them happily drunk. She rounds the corner hastily, rubbing her arms against the oncoming chill of dusk.

A shout pierces the night. Sway hesitates, searching for its source. Three men are taunting a young boy, Irish by the sound of it. The Delancy's are up to their usual dirty tricks.

Sway clenches her fists angrily, then forces herself to keep walking. She knows that it's none of her business. She hears a sickening thud and a desperate cry. _Damn_. She has no chance against three men, but she can't live with herself if she doesn't try.

She stoops to pick up a loose cobblestone, then stalks back towards the boy and his attackers. She throws it at Morris, hoping to distract him. The cobblestone hits him on the left shoulder with a crack. It unnerves her how satisfying his yell of pain is.

"Quit it, Morris! Your ugly mug's scaring the kid. He'll have nightmares," she says mockingly. The men are now focused on Sway instead. Morris lashes out at her, swearing passionately. Sway ducks his punch nimbly. She's had practice being light on her toes. She trips him with a well-placed foot and a shove. He goes down hard, but his brothers lunge for her before she can regain her balance. One grabs her from behind, and the other manages to land a solid punch in her stomach. She gasps for breath while she gropes for a handhold on her captor. Her fingers clench round his arm. She pulls it over her shoulder and falls to one knee as she jerks forward. The man somersaults over her, landing hard on his back. His head connects sharply with the cobblestones. Sway mutters a quick thank you for the self-defense Shadow made her learn on rainy days.

Morris is back up. Grinning nastily, he slams his booted foot into Sway's side. The air rushes from her lungs and stars burst against her eyelids. "Leave 'er alone!" the Irish boy yells, throwing himself on Morris. Sway stumbles to her feet, but pain knifes through her ankle as she twists it on the uneven cobblestones.

* * *

Jack leaves the Diner early, thinking of walking over to Sarah's for a late-night visit. His mind is hazy from the drink and good company, but the panicked shouts coming from a nearby alleyway cut right through. He sets off at a run.

* * *

Sway gropes for her dagger; her last resort. The remaining two Delancy's advance on her. 

"A lady should know better than to interrupt somethin' that don't concern her." Morris grins a Cheshire smile, enjoying her pain. Sway struggles to force back the blackness crowding her vision. She fervently hopes the kid has enough sense to beat it. She's damned if she's going to go through all this for nothing.

Sway feels oddly disconnected from her body, as though she's another person entirely. She can't seem to get her breath back. She watches her knife flash, drawing a bright line of blood on someone's chest.

Another figure joins the fray with a vengeance, taking the Delancy's unaware. Sway

laughs hollowly. "Ya had it comin', boys," she wheezes. Her knife clatters to the ground as the world falls away.

* * *

Jack's eyes swipe over Sway's unconscious form, checking for serious injuries, then drags her out of the puddle that is slowly seeping into her clothing. The Delancy's have scattered, dismissing their victim as too much trouble. Jack rubs his jaw where an angry bruise is starting to form. Footsteps rattle in the street, and he looks up to see Mush and Racetrack rounding the corner. 

"Can't let ya outta my sight for more than a minute, can I, Jack? We 'eard the commotion all the way up at Tibby's." Racetrack whistles, seeing his friend clearly for the first time. "Nice shiner!" He can never resist poking fun at Jack's knack for trouble. Jack grins, glad to see a friendly face.

"I don't mind trouble so much when it gets me near a looker like this one," he jokes.

"Too bad ya ain't lookin' so pretty yourself," Mush retorts. "Sarah's gonna have somethin' to say about it if ya get into too many more fights. What was goin' on here tonight?" Jack shrugs.

Racetrack notices the young boy watching Jack from the shadows with admiration shining in his eyes. "Hey, kid." The boys eyes widen, and he folds his arms across his chest protectively. "Ya must be a pretty smart fighter if ya gave ol' Jack here all those bruises," Racetrack says, trying to put the boy at ease. The kid smiles shyly, his shaggy hair falling over one eye.

"Me name's Logan," he volunteers. The two boys continue to talk quietly.

Mush stares at the girl lying at Jack's feet. "Did she try to take on all three of the Delancy's?" he asks.

"Her and a little boy, looks like." Jack can't be bothered with the details.

"I know her," Mush confesses, frowning.

"Good, then you carry 'er back to the lodge house. She needs seeing too," Jack says, happy to thrust the responsibility onto someone else.

"We ain't exactly friends, Jack. I don't even know her name," Mush says. His voice is overly tense, but Jack is too tired and sore to care.

"I don't exactly care, Mush." His words hang in the electric air, an unspoken challenge. Both the boys are worn a little thin.

"Aww, stuff it you two. Now ain't the time," Racetrack says sharply, breaking the tension. Jack sighs and runs his hand through his hair, and Mush bends to lift Sway in his arms. She seems lighter and more fragile in unconsciousness.

Racetrack gives one last piece of advice to the boy, then sends him off with a clap on the shoulder once he's sure that there's no lasting injury. He explains the fight to Mush and Jack as they walk to the lodgehouse, scuffing their feet wearily.


	7. Chapter 7

Sway wakes slowly, squirming deeper in the bed and pulling the blanket tighter around her. She thinks for a moment that she is back at the Thieves Palace. Someone clears their throat, jerking her out of the remnants of her dream. She rolls over and opens her eyes, glaring sleepily at whoever has woken her.

Mush sits in a chair facing her bed, watching Sway with interest. She props herself up on one shoulder sulkily. Her eyes are half-lidded and framed by her dark lashes.

"What the hell . . . Why are you . . . Where am I?" Her voice is fogged with drowsiness. She yanks the bed sheet up to her chest as an afterthought, noticing that she is wearing only her chemise. She supposes she should try to uphold some semblance of propriety.

"The Newsie Lodge House," Mush replies. The memories come tumbling back to her. The last thing she remembers is dropping her knife. She groans and drops back onto the lumpy mattress. She can see her shirt hanging over the back of a chair to dry. Hope presses her to check her belt for her knife anyways, but her fingers glide over the empty slot with a little pang. She supposes that it's still lying out in the street somewhere. Her mother gave it to her when she was twelve.

"What happened after I blacked out?" she asks quietly.

"What, no cutting remark? I'm shocked." His voice is heavy with sarcasm. He's not sure how he feels about this situation yet. Mush tilts his chair back precariously, watching her with his level gaze.

"It's too early," she says groggily. Her head still aches. "You going to answer my question?" Mush grudgingly obliges.

"Some of us newsies were at the Diner tonight. Jack set off early to pay his girl a visit and found you in a brawl with the Delancy's. He got there just before you passed out and kept them from takin' ya to pieces. Race and I heard the noise and came out to join him. Kloppman, he runs the Lodgehouse, he told us we could put ya in here. This room costs twice as much as a bunk, so it's almost always empty."

"That's it, I'll never live that one down," she mumbles. A smile tugs at Mush's mouth; he finds himself almost enjoying the girl's off-beat humor. "Anyone find my knife?" She tries to make the question sound less important than it really is. He shakes his head and watches her eyes darken with disappointment.

"What's your name?" It seems odd to him that he doesn't know. It's a quirk brought about by the continuing strangeness of their meetings.

"Sway," she replies after a moment's hesitation. He throws her a skeptical look.

"That your real name?" he asks.

"Real enough," she retorts. Mush can accept that. He stands up and grabs a nearby jar, unscrewing the lid. A pungent aroma fills the room. Arnica salve, probably.

Sway sits up, wedging herself against the headboard so that she can see him. Mush sits down at the foot of her bed, tossing the covers back and grasping her injured ankle gently. She pulls it back, wincing as the sore joint twists. It makes her nervous to feel so vulnerable.

"What are you doing?" she asks, suspicion lurking in her tone. Mush draws her foot back onto his lap firmly.

"Trust me," he says, only half joking. She rolls her eyes disbelievingly.

"I stole from you, Mush. That doesn't give me great faith in your intentions." He shrugs and rolls up the cuffs of her trousers. He dips his fingers in the jar, scooping out the pale orange salve. He smooths it onto her swollen ankle, his fingers tracing the violet shadows there. Her pain smooths into a light, tingling sensation as he rubs her ankle. She isn't sure if it's from the salve or his touch. "Really though, why are you doing this?" she asks.

He fixes her with a burning stare, quite serious. Sway shifts uneasily. It's as though he's looking into her soul, seeing all the times that she has lied and stolen and cheated. All the times that she hasn't cared. Her restless fingers crumple the edge of the covers. Finally, he speaks.

"I don't know, honestly." He pauses. "It just feels like somethin' I should do. Besides, I'm the only one in the lodgehouse who knows anything about injuries. My ma was a midwife."

"A midwife ain't exactly a doctor, just so ya know," she points out, eager to change the subject. Mush grins sheepishly.

"That's what I keep tellin' the boys, but they won't hear it," he says. An awkward silence settles on them. Mush wraps a length of rough cotton firmly around Sway's ankle, tying the ends together and proclaiming it as good as it's going to get for the next few days.

"Let me see your ribs," he says, moving closer to the head of the bed. "The Delancy's mighta cracked 'em." He eases up the fabric of her chemise and runs his fingers over the deep purple-black bruising on her right side. He presses down lightly with two fingers and Sway bites back a yelp. He declares her ribs to be badly bruised but not broken. Mush dips his fingers in the salve once more and massages it into Sway's side, his fingers banishing her pain. He hears her indrawn breath as the cool balm touches her.

"I wouldn't have pegged you a the hero type to defend that kid," he says, not meeting her eyes. Sway flushes, wether with anger or embarrassment Mush can't tell.

"It's get old, not being able to sleep at night. Felt like I should start makin' up for all the wrong things I've done." Her words hang in the air, harsh and self-deprecating. She wishes she could swallow them back. She swipes a loose curl from in front of her eyes roughly and looks out the duty window. Mush wonders if she's always angry with herself.

His's eyes flicker over her briefly before he returns to his job. If there's one thing he's learned about Sway, it's that she will continue to surprise. Tough, reckless, light-hearted, bitter, scared . . . He can't seem to figure her out. Sway leans forward so that he can wind another length of cotton around her sore ribs.

Mush turns away to replace the jar, but Sway catches his hand impulsively. "Thanks," is all she says. He nods curtly, knowing it would only embarrass her to make a big deal out of it. Sway swings her legs over the edge of the bed before he can stop her, mumbling something about getting home. He grabs her just as her injured leg buckles and she curses violently. He sets her back onto the bed, and his arms linger on her body for just a moment.

"I'm not sure I think much of your doctoring," she jokes. Mush offers her the bed for the night, and she accepts reluctantly. She slips back under the covers, and Mush blows out the candle. He can hear her breathing in the silence. He hesitates with his hand on the doorknob. He feels a curious attraction to this peculiar girl. Not affection as such, but a deep fascination.

"Goodnight," he murmurs. He is silhouetted against the dim light of the next room for a brief moment, casting an eerie shadow across the splintery floorboards. Then the door clicks shut.

"Goodnight," she whispers into the darkness. Sway turns over and pulls the covers up to her chin, but her eyes remain open. On the other side of the wall, Mush stares at the ceiling, unable to find a comfortable position. He reaches a decision and climbs down from his bunk. No one hears the lodge house door creak shut behind him.

Sway awakes with a start as an old man's voice punctuates the early morning calm. She hears the newsies grumble and complain, thumping and rattling around as they prepare for the day. She gets up but doesn't leave her room; she doesn't feel up to any more excitement just yet.

Sway drags her fingers through her hair, yanking at the tangles. She pulls on her shirt, glad that it has dried overnight. Hearing the footsteps in the outer room receding, she slips out the door and turns to push it shut. What she sees makes her pause, her hand clenched on the door knob. Her knife is jammed into the door, its scratched point pinning a tattered piece of paper to the wood. The note reads:

I thought ya might want this back, so I went back to find it. M.

Meet me at Medda's tonight.

The second line is an afterthought, scrawled hastily at the bottom. Sway rips the note free and jams it in her pocket. Her fingers caress the smooth steel of her knife before she slides it into her belt. Warm satisfaction glows within her. Her face is thoughtful. She finally steps out into the crowded street, walking with a slight limp that she tries to conceal. She blends quickly into the crowd, becoming just another lost soul among the masses.


	8. Chapter 8

Sway lounges on a rickety old chair, one leg over the arm rest, listening to Rumor babble on about her latest boy. Sway knows by the end of the week he'll be old news, but she listens anyway for Rumor's sake. Ever since Rumor gave up hope for a proper marriage, she's contented herself with being the one who loves and leaves.

Her mind wanders to Mush. Why does he want to meet her at Medda's? She's never been, but she's heard that it's a pretty good show. The best vaudeville show in Manhattan, actually. She stretches her legs restlessly, pointing her toes. It's been too long since she took a night off for pleasure. She'll go, but only to thank Mush for returning her dagger and to see what all the fuss is about. That's what she tells herself.

". . . Don't you think, Sway?" Rumor asks. She is smudging red rouge onto her pretty mouth and admiring her reflection in the single mirror shared by all the girls. Sway jerks upright in her seat.

"Uh . . . yeah, yeah, I do," Sway stutters, not wanting to hurt Rumor's feelings. "Is that makeup or am I seeing things?" Rumor grins mischievously and winks at a passing man through the window.

"Stole it outta a rich dame's bag, I just told ya. The boys love it." Sway giggles at her antics and sprawls back onto the chair, tipping it up onto two legs. The air inside the Thieves Palace seems stifling to her, heavy with petty troubles and hopeless desires. Her chest feels so tight with need that she wants to scream and relieve the pressure. The distant bells of the clock tower echo dully. Seven o'clock. Sway's chair slams back onto all four legs as she stands, grabbing the mirror from Rumor.

"I'll see you around, Rumor. I need to get out of this place." Rumor nods and her trouble-maker's grin slips for a second. She knows the feeling all too well, but she hitches her carefree facade back up regardless. She has to keep up appearances.

Sway exits the room and shoves open her door, tossing the mirror onto her bed. She pops the lid off of her whiskey flask and takes a long pull, then tugs a bright blue tee-shirt over her head. Tired and frayed it may be, but it's clean. Her pants are smudged with dirt or soot wet where the cuffs drag on the street, but there's nothing she can do about it. She shrugs at the mirror. Presentable, at least. Sway smooths her dark hair in the mirror, running her fingers through her twisting curls. She strikes a pose and blows a kiss to the emptiness, then laughs at herself and walks out. She feels lighter already.

Sway strolls towards Medda's, wondering if it will live up to its reputation. She hooks a thumb in the waistband of her trousers and studies the building, wondering who thought that "the Swedish Meadowlark" sounded clever or enticing enough to put on the sign. She notices Mush lounging on the steps, lazy and sexy. His eyes dart up every few moments, looking for someone.

Sway approaches with a touch of uncertainty. Mush sees her and calls out a greeting.. "How's it rollin', Mush?" she says. Her voice is cautious. She still doesn't know wether or not she's in his good graces. "So what's the occasion?" Mush takes a long look at her serious face.

"Actually, I only asked ya here so me and the boys wouldn't have to rescue ya tonight. My schedule's a bit to full for those hijinks on Tuesdays." His mouth twitches slightly at the indignation on her face. She's about to say something quite rude when she notices that he's having a difficult time keeping a straight face. A laugh bubbles out of her as she smacks him on the arm, realizing that he's only joking. A smile breaks out on his face. It's the first time he's seen her truly laugh.

"If that's all, then I'll be going," she says, adopting a hoity toity voice. She turns away and he catches her arm, a grin still lingering on his face.

"Naw, come with me," he says. "You'll love this." He guides her to the entrance of Medda's, and the two slip inside to a world of bright lights, glittering ornaments, and stage props.

"It's Newsie Night," Mush explains. "Medda has a bit of a soft spot for the newsies, so every once in a while she puts on a free show for us." Mush shoves his way through the crowd of kids to a place with a good view o the stage, towing Sway after him. She trips on someone's shoe, and her ankle twinges.

Jack and Racetrack are already there, leaning over the balcony rail eagerly and laughing at something. "Whatdya hear, boys?" Mush tosses out. "You remember Sway?"

The kids around them erupt with cheers when Medda steps onto the stage. Shaking her blonde curls out of her face and striking a pose, she trills, "Hello, newsies! What's new?" The boys whistle and cheer, held captive by her unique beauty. The light glitters on her jewelry. A few bars of music roll out onto the stage, and Medda's crystal voice rises to meet them. Even Sway is fascinated by the way she moves, kicking up her skirts and twirling, swaying, bending. She glances around at the love-sick boys around her, transfixed with longing, and swallows a laugh. She leans into Mush, who is singing along with the music boisterously. She has to almost shout to get his attention.

"Hey! Hey. Thanks for getting my knife back, Mush." She hopes he can tell how much it means to her.

"No problem," he replies casually. He grabs her hand impulsively and spins her around as the music crescendos, making her giggle.

By the end of the night, Sway's voice is hoarse from shouting. The atmosphere of excitement and lust and joy washes over her, permeating her skin. She can't remember the last time she felt so full of energy and life. Medda takes one last bow before the curtains close, and applause roars through the building, punctuated by the whoops and hollers of the most devoted fans.

The newsies trickle out of the theater in small groups, talking among themselves, grinning with the afterglow. Sway steps out and turns to say goodbye, but Mush shakes his head.

"I'll walk you to your place," he says. She starts to protest, but he's already moving. They walk back to the Thieves Quarter in silence. The faint light of the moon glows around them, softly tracing the shadows. The city appears cleaner and purer by moonlight, but one only has to look into the shadows to see the gritty truth; the homeless rustling in dark spaces, and whores raising smoky voices to tempt lonely men.

They reach the steps leading up to the door of the Palace, and Sway turns to say goodnight. Her eyes wander over Mush, strong and handsome and so very male. Something twists inside of her and her breath catches in her throat. She feels an intimacy between them born of passion and desperation.

She takes a small step forward, unable to resist. Suddenly she is kissing him, demanding and challenging at once. Sway's heart races at the sensation. The shadows glide over them as Mush pushes her backwards towards the wall, his hands running over her body possessively. He can taste the tang of whiskey lingering on her mouth. The stones of the Palace press against Sway's back. Mush slides his hands to the back of her thighs, and she tenses her legs so he can lift her up, wrapping her legs around his waist. The world swirls and glows around her dizzily. She softens, curving her body against his until . . . _the dress rustles sullenly as it slips to the floor._ His hands are sliding up under her shirt, caressing her soft skin, but she's lost the moment.

_. . . bites her lip as the sharp pain flares . . . _Her breath catches in her throat. _. . . just another petty pleasure . . . _She can't break away from the ghost of that other night. Mush feels her stiffen, drawing back from him unconsciously. She draws a shaky breath, her hands clenching on his shoulders. She's afraid. He breaks the kiss and looks her in the eyes, questioning.

"What's the matter, doll?" he asks huskily. Sway's lips curve in a sweet smile, a smooth cover for her fears and uncertainties. She's always been a good pretender.

"Nothing, except that you've stopped kissing me." She leans in once more, but he can feel her braced against him. Mush takes a dry swallow and steps back, setting her feet upon the dirty cobblestones. He knows the difference between true passion and pretense. He brushes his hand along her cheek reassuringly, his hands lingering for just a moment. He can hear her stifled sigh of relief. Deciding not to push her for any answers tonight, he simply murmurs something about getting back to the lodge house. He cups his chin in her hand and kisses her once more, slowly, gently, and leaves her to herself.

His sudden absence bothers her in a way she wouldn't have expected. She smooths down her hair and knocks on the door, waiting just a moment until Shadow opens it. She raises an eyebrow knowingly when she sees Sway's swollen lips and rumpled clothes. "Tell ya later," Sway promises, brushing past her friend. She's suddenly bone tired. She climbs the stairs to her room and slumps on her bed, noticing with disgust that she is shaking. It's been months since she has had a flashback like this, although she still dreams about it during the nights. None of the other boys she's kissed lately have affected her like this, but none of them have gotten under her skin like this either. Perhaps it's just the heightened emotion that recalls the memories.

Her hand fumbles for the familiar shape of her little bottle of alcohol, her panacea. A couple of swallows later, the incident begins to blur and fade. She pulls off her shoes, then collapses onto her bed and waits for sleep to claim her.


	9. Chapter 9

Sway wakes the next morning with a firm resolve to get back to business. Dressing inconspicuously, she heads outside. This morning she'll try the market, generally fruitful grounds for petty thievery. She walks down the grimy streets, alert and waiting for an opportunity to present itself. She finds one in the shape of a boxing match. A couple of roughs are going at it in the ring, their faces streaked with blood and sweat. The crowd gasps and hollers as one man catches his opponent square in the jaw. The crowd stands riveted with morbid fascination.

Sway slips among them, muttering ungraciously when someone bumps into her and keeping her eyes lowered. No one notices her hands slipping deftly into purses and pockets. After passing through the crowd and out the other side, she decides to call it quits. She doesn't want to overwork her advantage. She walks back to the Thieves Palace, her step jaunty and her eyes bright. Nothing makes her feel more alive than thieving.

She ignores the ragged children clamoring about the newest headlines, not wanting to waste any of her ill-gotten money. Their presence turns her thoughts back to Mush, wondering what he thinks of her after last night's episode. She wishes he hadn't seen through her act. It makes everything so much more complicated. Sway skirts Central Park, resisting the urge to look for him.

She saunters into the Thieves Palace and makes for the stairs, eager to store her ill-gotten goods in her room. Rumor catches her arm before she makes it halfway there. "There's a man been askin' around after ya. By the name of . . ." she snaps her fingers, trying to remember. Sway's heart jumps. She's not sure if she's dreading his name or aching to hear it. ". . . name of Mush. That sound familiar?" Sway nods, unwilling to give away any details to Rumor. There's no quicker way to spread news than to tell a girl like her. "Said he wanted to see ya. I told 'im that ya weren't in the receivin' mood." A grin flashes across Rumor's face.

"Lord, you make me sound like a workin' girl." Sway rolls her eyes. "Thanks for the message, anyway." She leaves before Rumor can interrogate her. She pushes at her door, then kicks it open resentfully when it sticks. The dampness in the air always makes the door finicky at this time of year.

Her room feels different. Almost as though she's not alone . . . Sway whips her dagger out from her belt, spinning around. What she sees stops her heart. Mush leans against the wall, half in shadow. A crooked smile curves his lips at Sway's inquisitive stare.

"Ya ain't the only one who knows how ta open windows from the outside," he says smugly. Sway shoves her dagger back in her belt and tosses her pouch of thievings onto the bed. She sits on a rickety stool, pulling together the shreds of her composure. She wonders why he always manages to throw her off balance like this.

"So's this a courtesy visit or what? "'Cause normally people use the door." She feels cool pleasure at how casual her voice sounds.

"I got tired of waitin' to see ya. I had this feelin' ya were avoiding me, Sway." He sounds serious. Sway considers before answering.

"Might have been, yeah," she replies lightly. It's no use lying to him about it. She squeaks her stool back and forth under his level gaze.

"Why?" He finally asks. She swipes her hair back from her face, exasperated with him. Why should she have to answer his questions? He barely knows her.

"What's it to you, Mush?" She stands up abruptly, exasperated. "I've got business to attend to anyway. Come back later. Or don't." She shrugs and reaches for the door, but Mush blocks her way.

"Knock it off, Sway. I ain't buyin' it," he growls. He takes a step toward her. "What's the matter with you? You afraid or somethin'?" She knows that he's goading her, but she can't resist.

"I'm not afraid," she says through gritted teeth. She's trying to convince herself as well as him. She can tell by the look on his face that he's not buying her act. He'll let her keep lying to herself or as long as she needs to, but he won't ever believe it. He hisses a curse under his breath. He turns away from her, then whips back around.

"Look, Sway, if ya ain't had to much experience with men I'll understand-"

Sway cuts him off angrily. "I ain't exactly some timid virgin, Mush." Her voice comes out harsher than she meant it to. She wishes she could pull the words back out of the dead silence, but all she can do is glare sullenly, folding her arms across herself. He leans back against the wall and fixes her with his intense gaze. Once again she feels as though her protection is sliding away, leaving her bare and lonely.

"You just keep closin' yourself off, Sway." She starts to protest, but he cuts her off. "You know it's true."

"Don't." Her voice has the barest hint of tears in it. She swallows hastily and clears her throat. "I'm not a good person to get involved with, Mush. It's not smart. You'll only get hurt." She doesn't know why she cares, but her chest feels tight every time she thinks about causing him pain. Not like the other boys, the ones she laughs with and charms and then moves on. Mush shrugs.

"I can't help it, Sway. It's like I ain't got no choice in the matter." She knows. The emotions between them are tangles with attraction, anger, concern, spite, need, regret . . . Is love among them? She doesn't know.

Sway presses her palms to her face. "Alright," she whispers. "Alright." He's close, too close. The dim light slides over his handsome face, alights within his chestnut eyes. She lays her hand on his arm, feeling his taut muscles beneath the rough cloth of his shirt. She draws nearer, then pauses, unsure. Her lips brush his gently, and he slides his strong arm around her waist. At his first touch her heart races. She glows. She kisses him deeply, desperately, pushing up against him. She slides her hands under his shirt, drawing her nails lightly over his back. She can feel his sharp intake of breath, then loses herself as he kisses her neck. Abruptly he pulls back, his chest heaving slightly. She can see the effort it costs him. "You should go," she breathes. "We can't finish this." She's glad to see that he agrees, for a change. He kisses her once, chastely, then slips through the window into the night. She has to force herself not to look after him.


	10. Intermission

So after I started this story my days got a little bit intense, and I discontinued it because I didn't think that many people were reading it - not as many readers regularly peruse Newsies just to see what's new (although the few reviews I did get were really encouraging, thanks guys!) So I'm testing this out again. I'm thinking of picking the story back up and maybe changing a few things around stylistically. I've had the full plot laid out for ages, I've just lost my momentum. So if you notice this and want another chapter to think about, just drop me a quick line and I'll give it to you as soon as I can. My junior year of highschool is proving to be a bit strenuous, but I would love to find time to do some more work on this story if people are interested.


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